It is a sad moment in a woman's life when she realises that she does not
possess the heart of the man she loves. If one may use a sordid simile
in this connexion, her position resembles that of the owner of a
beautiful home in possession of which the bailiff has been placed
through the indiscretion of another. In this instance Honor was in
possession with full power to hold, and without personal interest in the
value of what she held, and what she would never claim for her own. But
her right robbed the other of all the joy of ownership. An empty jewel
casket has little intrinsic value, and stands only as a reminder of the
precious thing it was intended to contain.
It was impossible for Brenda to hide altogether from Matheson the
difference which his confidence had made to her. She endeavoured to
maintain their former relations of pleasant and intimate comradeship,
but he detected behind the assumed brightness of her manner the
increasing restraint, the shy reserve, beneath which she sought to cloak
her feelings, and the pain of her disappointment. He realised with
considerable dismay that his matrimonial plans were in danger of further
defeat. The fear of defeat goaded him and gave a keener edge to his
desire. He could not, he found on making the attempt, reconcile himself
to the thought of losing her. For one entire, unforgettable week he
refrained from going near her. He had no means of discovering whether
she missed him, but he missed her almost intolerably. In the end he
threw over his resolves and went in search of her.
Again it was on a Sunday that he sought her after his brief avoidance.
On the previous afternoon he had been at the Aplins. Something he heard
there stripped his last scruple from him and determined him to see
Brenda on the morrow. Mrs Aplin had pressed him to stay to dinner, and
he had stayed; he did not know why; he had not wished to, and he had
demurred on account of being in flannels. They waived the matter of
dressing. No one would dress, Mrs Aplin announced; the girls would
merely change their blouses.
The change had been somewhat elaborate, and only stopped short of being
full evening dress. Instead of rousing his admiration, as had been
intended, it kept alive a consciousness of his own negligent attire,
which did not add to his enjoyment. He had never felt so unutterably
bored with the inconsequent chatter of Rosie, nor more annoyed with
May's noisy performance on the piano. She sang popular songs with
choruses in which every one joined; and when this form of amusement
wearied they all repaired to the billiard-room, just to knock about the
balls, Mrs Aplin said, beaming, thoroughly satisfied, having started
the young people playing games, that they were having a good time.
Before he left she contrived with an openness that was not diplomatic to
get a few words alone with him. Her insistence on a little private talk
robbed her confidences of the air of being casual which she had intended
to give them, and prepared him against surprises.
"The girls monopolise you," she said pleasantly. "I never seem to get
the opportunity for a talk."
He wondered what was coming and felt apprehensive; but his wildest
conjectures could not anticipate what she had it in mind to say. She
started on irrelevant topics, wandered rather aimlessly from one subject
to another, and finally came to her point.
"I am so pleased you came to-day," she said. "We began to feel
neglected. The girls tell me they see you sometimes in town; and of
course at the theatre last week... I don't think you saw us though.
You were with the Uptons."
"I saw you," he answered, and felt himself flushing awkwardly. "But I
wasn't sure... I thought perhaps... You see, Miss Aplin told me there
was a little difficulty..." He looked at her squarely and shifted his
ground. "It was a jolly fine play, wasn't it? And the acting was quite
good."
"I thought it a little sensational," she replied, and disposed of that,
smiling at him with almost maternal solicitude as she added: "It was
thoughtful of you to consider my prejudices. Having girls, you see, I
have to be very careful. But I am sorry for Brenda Upton. She is
thrown with undesirable associates, and has been talked about in
connexion with men. Her mother is always striving to get her married.
That sort of thing is very bad for a girl; and with their history they
ought to be _so_ careful. She is naturally anxious to marry for the
sake of a home; and I hope she will succeed in finding some honest man
in her own sphere who will overlook what is undesirable in her past.
She is not after all responsible for her father's failings."
"I should think not," he answered, with a curtness he was unable to
prevent. He felt almost uncontrollably angry. He apprehended quite
clearly that Mrs Aplin was desirous of warning him against a
mesalliance, and he considered it not only an unwarranted impertinence,
but a mischievous and scurrilous aspersion of Brenda's reputation. "I
doubt whether any man of average common sense would think twice about
that," he said.
"You know her quite intimately, I suppose?" she ventured.
"Yes," he answered, and added with a certain dry malice: "I imagine I am
the only man in connexion with whom she has ever been talked about."
"Really, Mr Matheson!" Her tone was as shocked as her look. He
laughed savagely.
"Oh! it's an entirely innocuous scandal. To be honoured with Miss
Upton's friendship is a guarantee of discretion. Believe me, you have
been doing her a grave injustice."
"I don't wish to be unjust." Mrs Aplin surveyed him with displeased,
protesting eyes. "And I am sure if I had known you were such _great_
friends I wouldn't have spoken. But I know so _much_ more of them than
you can possibly know."
"I know only good of her," he returned quietly, and was immeasurably
relieved that May should choose that moment for breaking in upon their
talk, which he felt was getting altogether beyond his patience.
"You look," she said, assuming a graceful pose by the head of the sofa
upon which she leaned, "abnormally serious. I believe mother has been
fault finding. Come and sit over here, and I'll comfort you."
He laughed, and answered her jestingly; but he did not avail himself of
the invitation. That was the general idea in that house, that a man
must be comfortably placed, and submit to being petted. Possibly some
men liked petting, but that sort of thing was not in his line.
"It's getting late," he said, with an attentive eye on the clock, the
big hand of which seemed to drag with such exasperating slowness. He
felt grateful for the first time in their acquaintance to Mrs Aplin for
silencing her daughter's protests against his leaving so soon.
"Whatever did you say to him to make him so huffy?" Rosie asked when he
had gone. "I always knew he had a horrid temper."
"I warned him against that Upton girl. Those people are shameless in
their pursuit of him. But he wouldn't hear a word. If he spends all
his spare time with the girls in the cafes, I don't think it advisable
to ask him out here any more."
"It will be a triumph for her if she succeeds in marrying him," May
opined.
"Oh! he won't marry her. Men don't marry those sort of girls."
As an outcome of that unfortunate talk Matheson went the following
afternoon in search of Brenda. It was a cold dark day. A south-east
gale was blowing, and the town was enveloped in a sticky dust that clung
to the clothes and hair. Grit and small pebbles were carried by the
force of the wind and stung the unprotected faces of the few pedestrians
who ventured abroad in the teeth of the gale. The clouds hung dense and
low upon the mountain, pouring over the rocky sides with the effect of
cascades of foam tumbling over a precipice. Matheson, with his head
down, buffetted against the gale, and arrived damp and rather breathless
at his destination. He was early. He had timed his arrival in the hope
of getting Brenda to himself. He asked for Brenda on being admitted.
She came to him almost immediately, and it was manifest from her manner
that his visit was unexpected.
She shook hands, looked out at the lowering sky and the waving branches
of the trees, and smiled.
"You are brave to venture out in this," she said.
"I've been lonely for a week," he replied, as though that explained
everything, as perhaps it did; "an earthquake couldn't have kept me away
to-day."
The wind rattled the window, and flung a shower of tiny stones against
the glass.
"God! how it blows!" he cried. He drew her to the sofa, and seated
himself beside her.
"I'm not in the way, am I? You weren't lying down?"
"No." She laughed brightly. "I don't do those nice reposeful things
even on a Sunday afternoon. Mother is resting though, and I imagine
every one else in the house. There is nothing much to do with a black
south-easter blowing."
"We won't disturb them," he said, and smiled at her. "I am needing at
the moment only you. You don't mind if I stay?"
She looked surprised at this question, and answered in the negative.
"You've made me dependent on you somehow," he explained. "I've never
felt so intolerably lonely as during this past week. You ought not to
teach me to rely on you and then send me into banishment. It isn't
kind."
"But," she protested quickly, a soft amazement in her voice, "I never
suggested that I didn't wish to see you."
"I know," he said, "but..."
He paused, and regarded her fixedly. Their eyes met for a moment; then
she turned her gaze from his deliberately and looked out through the
window, an expression of distressed embarrassment sweeping over her
face. He stretched an arm along the back of the sofa behind her and
leaned slightly towards her.
"That isn't enough," he said--"not as things stand. You see, I can't
always have your comradeship that way. The time will come--it's
approaching now--when my work will take me away from here. What's the
good of friendship then? When I go, I'll miss you--as I have missed you
this week. I can't face it. I've grown to want you. I want to keep
you with me. There's only one way to do that, and I'm not sure you'll
agree to it. Had I been sure I'd have said all this weeks ago. But
you... you haven't let me somehow. You've held me off. And since that
day at the Monument I've been conscious of--a sort of estrangement. You
made me feel that I haven't enough to offer--"
"No," she interrupted sharply. "Surely not that?"
The tears rose in her eyes: slowly they overflowed and rolled down her
cheeks. She made no effort to stay them. She sat still with her face
averted and wept silently.
"I'm a clumsy fool," he said; "I hurt you without intending it. And
you're so sweet and kind... Dear, if you will marry me I will do
everything a man can do to make you happy."
Never one word of love! ... Not one word of love had he ever let fall
in all their talks together. She dropped her quivering face suddenly
between her hands to hide its sorrow from him.
"All that I have to give is yours," she whispered--"everything... If
all my love can help you just a little I will be glad. I've loved you--
from that first morning when you spoke to me on the beach."
He put his arms about her and drew her close and held her, still
weeping, with her face hidden upon his shoulder--giving all of herself
to him, taking the little that he offered, because she was a woman in
love who must have denied the crumbs of his affection.
"I couldn't bear to lose you," she sobbed... "I couldn't bear it. I've
thought I couldn't marry you even if you wished it, but--I can't--give
you up."
Without answering her, he kissed her, if not with passion, with a great
tenderness and an almost reverential gratitude; and in his heart he
resolved that he would make good to her in every way in which it was
humanly possible for the one thing which he could not give her--that
which was given already, and which no one can give twice--the pure flame
of a first passion. The love which he had for her was the steady glow
which succeeds the fierce upward flash of the white flame that leaps
from the heart and leaves behind only memories.